Poor Gifts Wax Rich
by PorcupineGirl
Summary: It's bad enough that John won't move back to Baker Street, but what Sherlock really can't abide is the reason why. Sherlock thinks he can win his trust back with a gift, only to discover that there are more layers to John's motivation than he realized. John/Sherlock


**A/N:** This was written for the Sherlockmas 2012 exchange, as a gift for LJ user fenm. Written for the prompts "Sherlock looks for the perfect Christmas gift for John," coupled with "Post-Reichenbach reconciliation."

**A/N #2:** I apologize to those who read this without the scene breaks in place. That must have been confusing! I had them in place when I posted on LJ and AO3, but for some reason ff-dot-net likes to edit those out. They have been restored, hopefully it's easier to read now!

* * *

"Yes?"

Even through the small, tinny speaker, Sherlock could hear both annoyance and confusion in John's voice. Headed to bed already, then, and didn't know who was at the door.

"We've got a case, John, come on."

"What - Sherlock, what are you doing _here_? Why didn't you just text me? Hold on, I'll buzz you up. I'll have to change out of my pajamas."

It took Sherlock seconds to bound up the single flight of stairs and in the door John had just unlocked.

"The murder was just 'round the corner from here, I thought I'd drop by."

"You could still have texted me first," John called from his bedroom, "I wouldn't have gotten ready for bed at all. We could be there by now."

"I thought it'd be a nice surprise," Sherlock muttered, his eyes taking in every detail of the sitting room. He raised his voice so his next statement would be heard, "If you'd been in 221B, I wouldn't have had to text you _or_ come here, and we'd be there by now."

John came back into the sitting room, shoes in hand. "Not that again," he rolled his eyes as he sat down and began to pull the trainers on, "We've been through this. I'm happy to be at your beck and call for cases, but I'm not moving in with you again, Sherlock. Deal with it."

Sherlock scowled at him. "You cooked for yourself three times this week -"

"Yes, it's amazing what one can do when there aren't any body parts in one's fridge."

"And once for someone else. It didn't go well, though, and this time you're the one who wasn't interested in taking things further. That's the fourth girl you've dated in the past five months and the third that you've broken it off with yourself instead of waiting for me to run her off for you."

John grunted as he pulled on his coat. "I guess I'm getting picky in my old age. They all would have ended it after the first time I cancelled a date for a case anyhow; I probably should have given up on dating as soon as you came back."

Sherlock suppressed the urge to agree heartily with that assessment. In fact, he waited until they were out of the building and walking towards the crime scene before speaking again. "I don't understand, John. I've apologized for my poor judgment in making you watch me jump, I've explained to you why I couldn't contact you for a year despite the fact that I would have found your presence highly beneficial, you claim you've forgiven me, and five months have passed, three and a half since your claim of forgiveness. I haven't mentioned it in a month, to give you time to further distance yourself from the emotional trauma I caused you and to reconsider the myriad reasons that moving back into Baker Street would be a good idea. What must I say to convince you?"

John sighed loudly, then stopped walking, his eyes closed. "Stop it. Just stop, Sherlock." He opened his eyes and glared at his friend. "There's nothing you can say. I can't do that again. I can't -"

He covered his eyes with a hand, massaging his temples as he struggled for the right words. He'd originally claimed to be too angry at Sherlock to live in the same flat with him, but that had clearly passed weeks ago. He wasn't looking for a new excuse now; he had another genuine reason, and was trying to find the right words to express it. Sherlock could probably deduce it from his expression if John would only move his damn hand. "I need - I need a little more emotional distance this time, Sherlock. We can be friends, and we can be colleagues, partners, whatever, but we can't be... we can't become whatever co-dependent mess we were before. The next time you've got to run off and leave me behind, I can't afford to fall apart like I did this time." He dropped his hand and looked Sherlock in the eye, not glaring this time but pleading, "We can't live together. _Please_, just accept that and stop trying."

Sherlock snorted, scowling at him. "There won't _be_ a next time, John. I've told you, I understand where I went wrong last time and I won't let it happen again. Besides, even you aren't stupid enough to believe my faked death a second time."

"You don't have to fake your death to run off halfway across the world chasing some mad criminal, and you know it. You also know that you wouldn't let me die -"

"I wouldn't," Sherlock snapped, "but I _would_ find a way to save your life without leaving you behind."

"Just. Drop it. You can't see the future, you don't know what you might have to do. Now, is there a crime scene or not?"

Sherlock gave him one last searching, angry look before twirling in his coat and setting off toward the address Lestrade had texted him.

* * *

"You know, sir, I think these jewel-toned jumpers would suit your complexion very nicely."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth. "It's the last weekend of November and I am looking at jumpers in colors that would look hideous on me despite the fact that I can clearly dress myself, and quite well. Do you really think I'm shopping for myself? How do you stay employed? Ah! Of course, temporary holiday staff, hoping they'll take you on permanently afterward. Don't get your hopes up."

The shop girl's smile faltered, but she was obviously intent on making a sale. Manager must be watching nearby. Ah, yes, that woman folding dress shirts. "Of course, sir, shopping for a friend, then. I'm sure that shade of yellow will look smashing on him."

"How could you possibly know that? You've no idea what he looks like. Please save your inane -"

"I know that, sir, because as you pointed out, you clearly have impeccable taste. So obviously, you're not going to pick out a jumper that wouldn't look good on him."

Sherlock paused. "I'll allow that point, but you should have worked that out for yourself to begin with."

Her smile didn't falter this time. She thought she'd impressed him. "Do you think he'll need some new gloves or a scarf to go with it?"

"I am more than capable of picking out a gift for my own best friend. Now go. Away." Sherlock's snarl was more severe than necessary, but it did get rid of the girl. He knew he wasn't reacting entirely to her irritating presence; the fact was, he _wasn't_ entirely confident that he was capable of finding an appropriate gift for John.

He shoved the jumper back onto the shelf. He'd given John one for their first Christmas living together. Two years ago; two years interrupted by a full year apart, making this only their second Christmas together rather than their third as it should have been. Making _that_ their _only_ Christmas living together, apparently.

The previous jumper had been quite nice: cashmere, far better-made than the ones John usually wore. A shade of green that looked like it had been invented just for John to wear. And he had liked it; sincerely liked it, unlike the scarf that Mrs Hudson had given him that he'd pretended quite convincingly to like. He wore it frequently, and not just so that Sherlock would see him wearing it. He wore it on dates, which he clearly would not do for Sherlock's benefit and which meant that he knew how good it looked on him. In fact, he wore it specifically on second or third dates, meaning that he knew _exactly_ how good it looked on him and wanted to wear it after he'd decided a woman was worth pursuing but early enough that he still wanted to put his best foot forward to ensure another date and possibly sex. This was all fine, as long as he continued to wear it at other times as well so that Sherlock could appreciate him in it. As he did, Sherlock had refrained from hiding it when a date was scheduled.

As Sherlock was reviewing this data on the previous jumper, he was hit with a wave of annoyance at the fact that he no longer knew what John was wearing when he went out on a date. Well, sometimes he knew, because he interrupted the date, but that had only happened twice since he'd returned. But now he was _missing data_ on John. That should not be as aggravating, as _distracting_ as it was. That data would not even be relevant if it weren't for the ridiculous feelings he harbored for John. Ludicrous, misplaced schoolboy crush bloomed out of control, something he hadn't managed to delete even after years of trying.

Sherlock suddenly realized that he'd been glaring at the shelf full of jumpers long enough that the manager was starting to give him rather worried looks. He glanced at the yellow one he'd been holding up one more time. No, a jumper would not be an appropriate gift this year.

* * *

"He's getting close to a hundred hours with no sleep. He'll start hallucinating soon."

"Fine, but make sure he comes by the Yard tomorrow," Lestrade waved John away to pull Sherlock up off the curb, where he could already feel his eyes trying to close.

"Come on, you," John said fondly, "we're a ten minute walk from my place. You can kip on the sofa."

"I can nap in the cab to Baker Street," Sherlock muttered, knowing full well that he sounded completely unconvincing. The adrenaline had drained quickly once Lestrade's team had arrived, taking the last of his energy with it.

"It's 3AM, there are no cabs nearby. We'd have to call one, then wait for it, then it's at least a twenty minute drive and if you fall asleep - _when_ you fall asleep, the cabbie is likely to take some ridiculous route to drive up the fare. Come on, you can make it a half a mile."

Sherlock stumbled along, thankful for John's hand gripping his arm to keep him focused. But when he realized he was leaning into John rather heavily, he straightened up and shook himself awake.

"Yes, please don't actually fall asleep on my shoulder while I'm trying to walk," John sounded amused and affectionate. Sherlock mumbled an embarrassed apology, but was secretly thrilled that his behavior didn't seem to have annoyed John in the least. He made a mental note to use sleep deprivation as an excuse for excess physical contact more often.

Soon he was sprawled on John's sofa, toeing his shoes off while John got an extra blanket out of his bedroom.

"See, isn't this convenient?" John pointed out as he tossed a quilt and a pillow onto the sofa next to Sherlock, "Having somewhere in a different part of the city where you're more than welcome to crash when you need to? There are advantages to having two separate flats."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "John, that's a brilliant idea! I know you still have your key to Baker Street, I'll need a key here. I'll leave some of my clothes here, along with extra toiletries - you can do the same there. Why share one flat when we can share two?"

John looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "You're not - you can't be - _No_, Sherlock. We're not sharing _any_ flats. You're welcome to stay at _my_ flat when you _need_ to, but it's not yours, and you're not allowed to leave your things here." Sherlock opened his mouth, but John cut him off. "Try it and see how fast I bin the lot of it. Now get some sleep, you look like shit."

Sherlock could feel his eyes closing of their own accord as he pulled the quilt over himself. "You really don't trust me, do you?" he murmured, half gone already.

He hadn't really meant for John to hear it, much less respond, but he soon heard bare feet padding back into the room.

"Sherlock, I trust you with my life," John's voice was soft yet firm. He hesitated before continuing, "But no. Not with this."

_With what, exactly?_ was the last thing Sherlock thought before he drifted to sleep.

When Sherlock woke several hours later, he could tell immediately that John was still asleep. Seizing the opportunity, he got up and began to quietly take stock of the flat. He worked his way around the sitting room first, noting every item that was present, its condition, and whether its presence implied the absence of another item. John was missing two of the Bond movies on DVD, and clearly needed another throw pillow to match the one he had. Not appropriate gifts, at least not from Sherlock. The blinds on one window were broken, but that was likely an issue for his landlord. Sherlock moved into the kitchen, where he quickly saw that none of John's dishes, glasses, or cutlery came from a matched set. There were definite possibilities there.

He suddenly realized that he was considering getting John a _cutlery set_ for Christmas, and flopped down on the couch with a huff. Under normal circumstances, an item John needed but had never mentioned might be seen as a thoughtful gift, one that meant he was paying attention to his friend's life. But if these were normal circumstances, his best friend wouldn't be keeping him at arm's length for fear that he would disappear at a moment's notice.

He didn't need John to move back, not really. He certainly wanted him to. He missed him more than he would let himself admit out loud, though he knew John knew anyhow. But the lack of trust hurt far more than the lack of someone to make him tea in the mornings. He had never meant to leave John behind, not really - but Moriarty's ploy with the snipers had proven more difficult to unravel than he'd expected, and by the time John was clear of that danger other issues had cropped up that kept Sherlock from contacting him. He knew now that he should have told John what he was planning from the start, but it was far too late to change that.

He also knew that it was not out of altruism that he would never disappear like that again - it was because being without John had torn him apart nearly as badly as it had John. John seemed to think that the solution was to be less attached to each other, but Sherlock knew that, for him at least, that simply wasn't an option. Not that he could tell John that. Because it had nothing to do with where they lived, and everything to do with being ridiculously, stupidly in love. In love with a man who, despite obvious physical attraction, would not ever consider his male best friend as an appropriate romantic interest. But Sherlock was okay with that, he really was. As long as he had John in his life, by his side when it mattered, he could easily live without the rest. But he knew now that he _needed_ John in his life, and he wished he could think of a way to show him that. To show John that to leave him behind again was unthinkable. Something symbolic, metaphorical - people liked that. John would like that. Something immovable, steadfast.

A slow smile crept across Sherlock's face. He folded the quilt neatly, got his shoes and coat on as quietly as he could, and slipped out the door. This would require some legwork.

* * *

"Merry Christmas."

Sherlock appeared at the side of the sofa and dropped a thick envelope with a large green bow on it into John's lap. John hurriedly moved his takeaway out of the way so as not to dirty the gift, then picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He looked up at Sherlock, his brow furrowed.

"Christmas is still two weeks away. I mean, thank you, obviously, but you're a bit early."

Sherlock just smirked at him, hoping that the expression successfully hid his anxiousness. When John hesitated, he felt the urge to fidget nervously with his shirt cuffs; instead, he sat down on the other end of the sofa. He doubted John would notice how tensely he was perched on the edge of the seat, but tried to relax his posture anyhow. He suddenly found looking at John to be one level too nerve-wracking to handle, so he kept his eyes trained straight ahead.

After a few more unbearable seconds stretched themselves out, John finally pulled the bow off and opened the envelope. He slid the thick packet of documents out, unfolded them, and looked at the sheet on top with an expression of confusion and curiosity. As his eyes scanned down the page, though, that expression slid off his face and was replaced with a blank look of shock.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, "Is this what it looks like?"

"If it looks like the deed to this flat, then yes, that's exactly what it is." Sherlock's reply was just as quiet.

"You bought out Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes."

"And both of our names are on it."

"Yes. Although you still need to sign it, obviously." Sherlock looked down at his hands, then risked a glance at John. John lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's, his expression slowly shifting from confused to wary.

"Look, I - I appreciate the sentiment, but you can't bribe me into moving back in."

Sherlock's jaw clenched involuntarily. He didn't want to have to say it. This should be obvious, even to John. Either his resentment was truly so deep that he couldn't see it, or he was being purposely stubborn because he wanted to hear the words. It wasn't that Sherlock wouldn't mean the words, but having to actually say them was so much less _elegant_ than letting the gift speak for itself. So unnecessary, or should be, but if John wanted to hear it, then he would say it.

"It isn't a bribe, John. It's a promise. Do what you like, move in, don't move in. I'll be here either way. I will never leave you again. Not for anything."

John stared at him for a few seconds. The shock was back, in his eyes, but also something warm. Something Sherlock wanted more of - wanted to cause more of. He would buy John several more flats, make so many more promises, just to see more of that in his eyes. John blinked and broke the eye contact, reaching for a pen that sat on the coffee table. He signed the documents wordlessly, then sat staring down at them.

"Thank you," he finally murmured, "This does mean a lot to me. It really does."

Sherlock finally allowed himself to smile, his nervousness abating now that he knew that his gift had been successful. "Congratulations, John, you're now my half-landlord. Just don't get any ideas about collecting any rent."

John grinned. "As long as you don't get any ideas about me making any repairs. And remember, I'm not your housekeeper."

They both laughed. "Don't worry, I've still got Mrs Hudson for that. We arranged all this last week and she's still been in five times with tea and biscuits, straightened my desk twice, and did my dishes this morning." That set John off laughing again.

"You really ought to pay her something for that."

"Don't worry, she'll be getting a very generous Christmas bonus, at least."

"You can afford to buy this place - I mean, I'm not shocked, I found that out after you died, obviously - but I've been meaning to ask. Why were you ever looking for a flatmate in the first place? You didn't actually need one."

"I wasn't," Sherlock got up and started to clear away their takeaway boxes. "I mentioned to Stamford that I was moving into a new flat, and he asked if I'd be sharing. I told him nobody on earth would want to live with me, and I suppose he took that as a challenge. I didn't think I needed to mention that I would never want to live with anybody, either, but somehow he failed to deduce that."

"It also failed to be true, apparently," John chuckled.

Sherlock looked back at John from the kitchen. "I took a calculated risk. One that paid off." He blamed the residual elation from seeing his gift well-received for the fact that he let more affection slip into his gaze than he'd intended. Maybe more than affection. Oops. He busied himself with the equipment on the table just a second before he would have seen the blush that crept onto John's cheeks.

John took advantage of the slightly awkward pause to stand up and grab his jacket. "I really should be getting home, I've got work at 8am and it's nearly midnight." He picked up the envelope and tapped it in his hand. "I really do appreciate this gesture, you know. Thank you. I'd apologize for not having anything for you yet, but I _did_ mention that you're two weeks early."

Sherlock broke away from his microscope and leaned against the kitchen doorway. He knew he was pushing it, but couldn't help himself. "You know the only thing that I want. Again, not related to those documents, no obligation. Obviously, or it wouldn't qualify as a gift."

John paused, his eyes on Sherlock's. He licked his lips, then bit the bottom one thoughtfully. Interesting; he was considering telling Sherlock something, but Sherlock couldn't deduce exactly what. Something related to the flat and moving in, obviously. His true motivation (not that anything he'd said so far on the topic was untrue, but something deeper) for not coming back. Sherlock resisted the urge to lunge forward, crowd him, try to force the secret out. If he'd kept it this long, Sherlock knew that he wouldn't be intimidated into revealing it now. Sherlock carefully managed not to change his position or expression. He pretended to be patient.

"This..." John patted the documents, now in his jacket pocket, "This helps. It does, honestly. I think I actually believe you. But I'm not... ready. Not just yet. Give me - just a bit more time, all right? I think - " he glanced around the room, taking in the place he once lived and would clearly like to live again, "Yes, I think I'll be able to eventually. Just not yet."

There. He had waited patiently, and still not got what he wanted, so Sherlock felt fully justified in pushing off the doorjamb with a growl of frustration. He paced the sitting room, running a hand through his hair. "What do you mean, not yet? Not until what? Every objection you've raised is no longer an issue! If you simply don't want to, just _say_ that and I'll accept it. Believe it or not, I'm aware that I make a horrid flatmate, John. If you're simply tired of being woken up by the violin at 3AM and finding body parts in the kitchen, and you just don't _want_ to live with me, that's perfectly reasonable, if boring. You've already shown that you still want to be friends with me, you still want to work on cases with me, even that you're still willing to put the cases above many other aspects of your life. You should know those things are more important to me than whether or not we share a toilet!"

He stopped pacing and looked at John sharply. John, for his part, didn't seem surprised or taken aback by the outburst, and instead once again looked like he was trying to work out exactly what to say. Which meant he did not plan on taking the out that Sherlock had just given him. "But in all these months, you've never said that. You've never actually said that you don't want to move back here. Won't, can't, not yet. You do want to come back. It's written all over you right now. So what is it that you're waiting for?" He went ahead and tried a little crowding of personal space, though he kept his tone soft. "What aren't you telling me, John?"

John stayed surprisingly calm. "Yes, I do want to, but no, I don't think that I should just yet. And I'd really rather not tell you why. Can't I just keep one thing to myself for once?"

"No!" Sherlock realized he'd shouted and pulled back a bit. "It's just... _frustrating_ to be working without all of the data. And anyhow, if you won't tell me, I'll deduce it eventually. You know that."

John sighed and chewed his lip, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. When he spoke, there was no malice in his voice. "Fine. You arrogant, obstinate prat."

He took his jacket back off and sat down heavily in the chair that used to be his. He scrubbed his hands over his face, then settled in with his elbows leaning on his knees. He looked down as his hands, not at Sherlock. "What you did tonight did mean a lot to me, so I will be completely honest with you. I'm trusting you, though, to respond... well, I would say sensitively, but you're incapable of that - just - don't laugh at me, okay? And don't make this a bigger deal than it needs to be, and in fact, you should probably just not respond in any way or ever bring it up again after tonight."

Sherlock did not agree to the terms, but John didn't appear to have noticed. Instead he climbed cross-legged onto the couch, studying John silently. Whatever this was, he was already fascinated.

John continued to talk to his hands. "When you were... dead. When you died, I, um. I told you how bad it was. But what I didn't tell you was that to really deal with the grief, I had to admit to myself that, um," he visibly steeled himself before continuing, "that I'd developed feelings. Er, romantic feelings. For you. Somehow."

Sherlock froze, eyes wide. A cold panic washed over his body, his heart suddenly racing and his mind an absolute mess. Half of it refused to believe what it had just heard, while the other half sped relentlessly ahead, making plans and imagining futures that had suddenly been opened. To make matters worse, the whole thing had just decided to fill unhelpfully with white noise and was having definite difficulty following any train of thought much farther than _John_.

John continued, mercifully unaware of the tizzy he'd thrown Sherlock's system into. "I know that's ridiculous, okay? I know. But I dealt with it and accepted it and almost started to move on from it and then you bloody _came back_. And that's just not a scenario humans are really equipped for, emotionally. I was thrilled, obviously, and angry, and - well, the whole - I don't know, emotional _mess_ just made things worse. More intense. But anyhow, I've been working on getting over it. It's taking longer than I thought it would, but just give me a couple more months, okay? I'll get there, and everything can go back to normal." He gave an amused snort, "Honestly, if you really hadn't deduced that yet, I'm shocked. I've never been any good at hiding things from you."

Despite that he was still scrabbling to regain normal thought, Sherlock found his mouth giving an automatic reply, "The intensity of your physical attraction to me stabilized at a fairly high level very soon after we met and has remained constant since then. When you take away the markers of physical attraction, it would be difficult to discern romantic affection from platonic; even more difficult given the depth of our friendship and thus your previously platonic affections for me. With some effort, it's unsurprising that you would be able to hide it unless I were specifically looking for it," he paused briefly, but found himself continuing despite the fact that he hadn't yet decided that the next sentence was one he should definitely speak aloud, "And even if I had looked for and found it, I'm not sure I would have believed it. I probably would have delayed announcing my findings in order to look for data that I'd missed that would prove it wrong."

John gave a rueful laugh, "Well, that explains that, then." Sherlock realized that he hadn't interpreted the last sentences correctly, but wasn't sure what to say about it. John looked over at him, finally saw his wide-eyed stare and panicked expression.

"God, Sherlock, don't look at me like that, okay?" He stood up and went to get his jacket back on. "You don't have to freak out about this. I'm getting over it, I _will_ get over it. It's not like I've never had a crush on a friend before, I can handle myself. Just take a deep breath and pretend I never said anything. I'm really going to head out now."

Sherlock's eyes had widened further, and though his brain had finally kickstarted itself back into thought it was a wild, tangled mess of _No, no, no - Not what I meant - John - I want this - Not why I'm panicking - Don't go - I swear I do - It terrifies me - No, John, please -_

"Don't!" He finally managed to blurt out just the single word.

John paused at the door. "No, I really think it's best if I go now."

Sherlock finally regained control over his mind and tongue. The panic was displaced by a rush of relief that his thoughts were finally returning to their normal ordered state. "I didn't mean don't go. I _also_ mean don't go, but what I meant when I said that word was - don't get over it. Don't - get over me."

John licked his lips and turned to look at him, his expression carefully guarded. "Why would you say that?"

As Sherlock answered, he slowly unfolded himself from the couch and moved towards John, still unsure he was doing the right thing but no longer able to pretend that he could do anything else. "Because while you've managed to hide this from me with some effort for a few months now, it has always been very easy for me to hide my feelings from you."

And then his hand was sliding through the hair at the back of John's head. It was softer than he expected, but within seconds Sherlock's thoughts about the hair were wiped away by the fact that he was _kissing_ John. His right hand gripped John's hair while his lips mashed against John's lips and John stiffened at the touch but then John's right hand tightened around his left bicep and John's left hand slid against his chest and the kiss was messy and unpracticed and glorious and a bit too hard and probably not actually a very good kiss at all, objectively, and Sherlock could not have told you any of these details about the kiss afterward because he could not register anything about the kiss beyond _John, John, John_.

Sherlock's lips parted, the tip of his tongue just seeking out John's mouth - and John gasped, pulling away.

"But you - you're not interested in - this. Any of this." John vaguely motioned between them.

"I wasn't, the day we met. We haven't revisited the subject in the nearly three years since then. Mainly because you have made it clear repeatedly that you consider yourself to be exclusively heterosexual, regardless of your obvious physical attraction to me and occasionally other men, and so I concluded that informing you that my position on the subject had changed would be at best pointless, at worst disastrous to our partnership." Sherlock's hand had slid down to the nape of John's neck, and his thumb was slowly stroking the bottom of John's hairline. The tiny hairs were incredibly soft; they made Sherlock want to go back to kissing John immediately. Unfortunately, he could tell that while John enjoyed the touch immensely, he would require more talking before more kissing.

"Oh. I. Wait, other men?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's distractibility. "Fine. So... your position, it has... changed, then?"

"Obviously."

"When - you said always. Before. Always?"

"Well, not always. It was unnecessary to hide my true feelings for you when they were purely platonic. Which was for approximately the first thirty hours of our acquaintance."

John's eyes narrowed as he ran over the timeline in his head. A smile spread across his face as he reached his conclusion. "You fell for me when I killed a man for you?"

"More precisely, I fell for you when I became _aware_ that you had killed a man to save my life, approximately a half an hour after the event."

While John was processing this, Sherlock leaned down for another kiss. This time John wasn't taken by surprise. Instead of stiffening, he melted into the kiss. In fact, as their tongues brushed he pulled Sherlock in further, twisting his fingers into dark curls. Sherlock responded, his left arm wrapping tightly around John's waist. This kiss was slower, deeper, made of passion rather than quick desperation, and Sherlock had no problem documenting every detail.

After a minute or two, John pulled back just enough to break the kiss but leave their noses touching. His eyes were bright and playful. "The problem is, though, I'm not sure I'm comfortable kissing a married man."

Sherlock blinked twice, then burst out laughing as he realized what John was on about. "I actually said that, didn't I? It's really not like me to use such tired cliches," he furrowed his brow and tried to look serious despite the strange lightness filling him, "At any rate, I've heard rumors that you, John Watson, have become rather involved with my work as well."

"Are you saying that your work is - is cheating on you - with me?" John did a very bad job of holding in a giggle.

"How do you feel about polyamory?"

"That would, ah. That would seem to be the solution here, wouldn't it? I suppose I've no illusions about which of us is your primary partner."

Although John was still smiling flirtatiously, Sherlock became suddenly serious. He needed, _needed_ John to understand this. "You. Always you, John. I can see you don't believe me, but it's true. You would never ask me to give up my work for you, and you would never want me to, but if you _needed_ me to, even if you didn't ask, I would. If I ever truly must choose, it will always, always be you."

John's smile had faltered, and Sherlock could see that he wasn't entirely convinced. "But you're still going to run off and leave me behind at crime scenes, and insult my intelligence, and withhold information from me about what we're _actually_ doing, and generally abuse me in all manner of ways for the sake of the work?"

"I... don't foresee that changing, no."

"Well, all right then." John's smile crept back, and his eyes were soft and shining. Sherlock had seen people look like that, but had never seen such a look directed at himself. John had looked at him with admiration, fondness, affection - but never with such raw _love_. Sherlock hoped that the hint of wonderment and lingering disbelief meant that John could see the same in his own eyes.

John stopped him just an inch away from another kiss. "You do realize, Sherlock, that no matter how badly either of us wants it, this is probably a spectacularly bad idea."

Sherlock smirked. "If there's one thing we are very good at, it's bad ideas."


End file.
